Addiction
by lila.roxo
Summary: Mitchell isn't the only perceptive one.


**Rating**: PG

**Pairing**: Annie/Mitchell

**Summary**: _Mitchell isn't the only perceptive one. _**One-shot.**

**Spoilers**: Some vague mentions of episode five and six.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the _Being Human_ characters. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

**AN**: First Being Human fic, so I'd really appreciate to get some feedback and ConCrit. Did you like it, love it, hate it with the fiery heat of a thousand suns? Do you think it can be improved? Any and all comments welcome! Crossposted at LiveJournal and the Blue Whale Pub.

**Addiction**

Mitchell watches Annie putt around the kitchen through half-lidded eyes, fingers curled around a cup of coffee. To him, the warmth of the mug feels almost as good as fingers grazing his palm, but Mitchell decides that after a day at the hospital with spilled blood and mops and as much bleach as he can stand he deserves this; he stretches, becomes all lazy smiles and slack muscles.

Annie's put the kettle on for the second time in half an hour and he can hear the sounds of spoon against ceramic as she mixes something. Tea, or coffee. Maybe some hot chocolate. The routine of it relaxes them both, and Mitchell wonders when he became addicted to this. He's never been much of a fan of hot beverages, even during the hardest of winters, even when he was human. But maybe, he muses, maybe he's become addicted to _Annie's_ hot beverages, to the _domesticity_ of it all. And Annie is nothing short of a goddess of domesticity.

Mitchell sprawls as much as he can in the small kitchen chair and steers his thoughts back to safe places. He thinks of tea and keeps it at that for a while. But the topic is as bland as water and his thoughts have always tended to crisscross.

He remembers, in his meandering stream-like way, that he drank the piles of teacups Annie made at first to keep George's screeching discontent about the overflowing mugs to a minimum. Mitchell is fond of George's screeches, but prefers they be caused by him. So, in the beginning he'd drink the tea to keep the house clear of clutter and half-empty cups. He'd tried disposing of the contents other ways, of course, but Annie had once seen him toss some coffee into the sink and she'd promptly burst into tears. That day had made ghost ovulating seem like a nice piece of cherry pie. Mitchell still cursed his inability to detect her ghost popping beforehand.

And then, after… after Josie, he'd begun drinking Annie's tea to keep his hands steady and stomach busy, a smoker's nicotine patch. The hot chocolate in particular had this way of sliding down his throat, all warm and sweet and thick, just like-

"Pound for your thoughts, Mitchell?" Annie asks, as she plops herself down on the chair opposite him and leans forward on the table.

Mitchell jumps and sloshes piping hot coffee onto his lap and the tabletop, nothing at all like the cool vampire he should be.

"Oh, _come on_", he mutters and stands up to look for something to dry himself with. A small hand stretches into his field of vision holding a fluffy towel with a duck print on it. Mitchell glares at the offending print for a while, eyes narrowed at the ducks swimming in pink felt, but Annie's hand trembles and he takes it, mops up the mess as best he can. When he plunks down on the chair again the table is dry and there is a new mug in front of him. Tea, this time.

"Thanks." He takes a sip and smiles at Annie.

She smiles back, radiantly, and he feels scorched for a second. She's like his sun, safe to him, and he has made an orbit around her, etched it into his being.

"So?" she asks, bringing him out of his thoughts yet again.

"My thoughts aren't worth a pound, Annie."

"In for a penny, in for a pound," she sings and props her chin on her palm, leaning forward.

"Well…" He casts around for a suitable answer. "I was thinking about how much I love your hot chocolate."

Annie slides back and pretends to think for a moment. "You're right," she says. "Your thoughts aren't worth the pound." Her grin is blinding.

Mitchell laughs and flicks the towel at Annie. She pops out in her ghostly way before the towel licks her and reappears by the whistling kettle, assembles the ingredients for some cocoa as she parrots away about buying some new things for the house. She whisks the hot chocolate up in no time and deposits it in front of Mitchell. He blinks, wondering which cup he should drink first, and then decides he has enough room for both.

Annie sits down again, eyes crinkled with pleasure and hands clasped around yet another steaming mug. Mitchell pats himself on the back for providing such an efficient distraction, then turns to watch the dying sunlight glint on Annie's ring.

Annie's face changes and Mitchell looks back up at her, startled, as she brings her legs up to the edge of the seat, cocks her head to the side. She pins Mitchell with a single look.

"Want to tell me what you were _really_ thinking about, then?"

Mitchell sputters. He hopes the flying tea is better at creating a distraction than he is, but somehow, he sincerely doubts it.


End file.
